“If you look in Mr. Frazier’s chart he is cleared for discharge once I have secured arrangements for his housing. I’ve secured it. So can you please start the paperwork?” I interrupted her abruptly. My voice was firm. My smile brittle. I knew Jill would want too many details. Details I was not going to give her.
“I will need to check Dr. Howell’s instructions,” Jill stated primly, her back up to my tone. I didn’t make it a habit of alienating the nurses. I had a good relationship with most of them. But I was feeling antsy to get out of there.
“Of course.”
I waited while she pulled up Yoss’s file on the computer. A few minutes later she cleared her throat. “Yes, I see Dr. Howell’s note here. Were you able to get him into the shelter?”
That is none of your business!
“I’ve gotten him appropriate accommodation. I’ll update his chart tomorrow,” was all I said.
Yoss would require follow-up care. I would have to put in his file where he was staying.
I hadn’t really thought about that.
But I didn’t really care.
Those were hurdles I’d jump later.
Right now, I wanted to get Yoss out of the hospital before he talked himself out of it.
I felt as though I had to hurry. That when I returned to Yoss’s room he’d be gone. He’d have disappeared.
“Oh. Okay. Well, I’ll be along to have him sign his discharge paperwork and to give him the outpatient instructions.” Jill gave me a strange look. “Should I put the Salvation Army as his current address?”
She was still digging. I was getting annoyed.
“I said I’d update his chart tomorrow. But thanks, Jill.”
Without saying another word, I returned to Yoss’s room just as he was emerging from the bathroom. The torn jeans and old flannel hung off his frame. He had put on some weight since being in the hospital, but it was obvious he still had a long way to go until his clothes fit him right.
He stood with his hands awkwardly at his sides, his eyes on the floor. “Jill will be bringing your discharge paperwork in a minute,” I said, wishing he’d look at me. There was a strange tension between us.
Maybe I had pushed him too far. Maybe he didn’t want to stay with me. Perhaps I was transferring my own hope onto a man who had none.
“You’re still sure about this?” he asked, his voice rough. His words lacking all confidence.
He finally looked at me and I saw his fear.
Yoss was scared.
“It’s okay to admit that you weren’t thinking clearly when you offered me to come home with you. I understand that seeing me again has brought up all of these old feelings. What we used to have was intense. I don’t think either of us ever expected to see each other again. Not like this. So things are getting mixed up with who we used to be. I don’t want you to feel responsible for me, Imogen. I don’t want you to feel obligated to ghosts.” Yoss clenched his hands into fists and chewed on the inside of his lip.
His fear was about me.
And my possible sense of obligation.
I took a step towards him. Then another.
Then another.
“Yoss,” I said his name firmly. His green eyes met mine. “I’m doing this because of who we are to each other now.”
He sighed. “It’s been fifteen years, Imi. You don’t know anything about the person I’ve become. How can you say we’re anything to each other?”
I put my hand on his chest, ignoring the feel of his ribs beneath his skin. I pressed my palm over his heart. Thud. Thud. Thud.
“I know who you are in here. I trusted the eighteen-year-old boy who made sure I was fed. Who protected me. Who loved me. And I trust the man he became. Sure, people can change, but I see who you are.” I patted my hand on his chest before withdrawing it.
“Now prove me right.”
Fifteen Years Ago
Today was my birthday.
I was turning seventeen.
One year older.
I gazed up at the steel girders above me. Stretching in either direction, vibrating with the constant rush of traffic.
It was noisy. My eardrums thrummed with the constant drone.
Seventh Street Bridge was the place for the people that life had thrown away.
I was one of too many in this unspoken side of a broken down city.
When I had first found myself beneath the bridge all those months ago, everything had seemed dark and dirty and more than a little scary.
But now, brutal and raw, I found it soothing. The never-ending noise. The stench of fires that burned in the trashcans. The wasted eyes of the kids around me. The shadows that lingered and never went away.
Now it was home.
And that was the only place to spend your birthday.
The sun was bright. The air was cool. I felt the wind against my skin, my baggy sweatshirt and tattered coat doing little to keep out the air.
The rocks were hard and sharp under my palms as I leaned back on my hands, stretching my legs out in front of me, laughing at a lame joke Bug was attempting to tell.
Birthdays had never been a big deal for me. Often my mom forgot about them completely. I had grown out of the disappointment. I had come to expect little.
In some ways, this was better than any of my other birthdays before.